


Don't Fear the Reaper

by Thursday26



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse-mentioned, M/M, Non-graphic death, Pre-Relationship, also death, but death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28781844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday26/pseuds/Thursday26
Summary: Peter Parker is a reaper. While working, he encounters a particularly troublesome soul whom he meets again... and again... and again.*note: the tags are a broad warning for content that could be upsetting for some people, but it is non-graphic. The tags are there just in case.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 123





	Don't Fear the Reaper

**Author's Note:**

> so i didn't use any of the major tags because none of it is graphic, but i do discuss death and severe bodily harm, as well as implied child abuse. It's mentioned very shortly and not gone into detail at all. For a deadpool fic, it's honestly quite tame, but i have made the rating T to be safe as well as added some tags that might warn off people. but! i hope you enjoy it!

The first time Peter met Wade Wilson, Wade was seven and suffering from a dangerous head wound, given to him thanks to his father, delivered via broken beer bottle. Well, it wasn't broken until it met Wade's head. At this time, Peter didn't go by a name, or have a chosen form. He didn't see the point. He had a job to do and he could accomplish it as the formless... being? Entity? Force? that he was born as. Peter is what most cultures refer to as a reaper, or a ferryman. He helps souls cross to their resting places.

Peter has knowledge that stretches far beyond human comprehension, starting from when life began in the universe, but his memories started in World War Two, an extra hand created to help keep the space between the living and the dead running smoothly. Once the war was over, Peter stuck around on Earth, as it had been named by the humans that dominated it. Extra reapers went off to other worlds, but Peter knew that death would always be present here and his job wouldn't end. He wasn’t as busy as he was during the war, but death was still constant: an old man passing in his sleep, a rabbit caught in a trap, a little girl who ventured too far into the ocean before an adult noticed.

It isn’t pleasant, but death is always present when there is life.

Little seven-year-old Wade Wilson, Peter recalls, was the first soul to outright refuse to leave with him. All souls are scared, but Peter's presence tends to calm them and they move along with him, sometimes asking questions, sometimes demanding answers, some quietly relieved to be moving on. But Peter's presence did not calm Wade Wilson.

As soon as Peter entered the hospital room, Peter saw Wade's shoulders tense.

Human souls have always fascinated Peter. They are the only living beings on the planet that are so connected to their identity that their soul naturally takes the shape of their physical body. So the tensed shoulders were more surprising to find than the little boy standing next to the hospital bed occupied by a body that looked exactly the same.

Although Peter should've noticed that, especially when it comes to injuries, human souls don't look exactly like the human body. Most humans don't carry their injuries so deep that they manifest on their soul. But little Wade's soul had a white bandage wrapped around his head, just the same as the body. Humans, while connected to their physical bodies, tend to take the form of their most preferred appearance. Injuries generally aren't there.

Wade's head snapped up the moment Peter's presence entered the room, his eyes going to where Peter was standing, and giving a vicious frown. "Who's there?" he demanded, young voice as hard as steel.

"I'm here to help you find peace," Peter responded calmly. It is a line he has come to use most often, since it seems to calm people more than hearing they are dead. Animals are rarely so hard to placate.

Wade snorted. "Yes, right. I don't trust people I can't see."

"I am not a person."

"So I  _ really  _ don't trust you," he sneered, ignoring Peter by turning back to look at his body. 

Peter knew that Wade wasn't ready to leave, so he left the boy alone to come to terms with his fate. Peter can't actually force a soul to leave before it's ready, so he'll keep tabs on them and continue to ask until they come with him. It wasn't the first time Peter had left a soul to ponder, but it took Peter years to realize that his presence had agitated Wade instead of calmed him. Peter had gone back a day later and Wade was just as obstinate and refused to leave. Souls usually aren't so... stubborn. 

Peter had never had such an issue doing his job before, so he decided to switch up his method to hopefully get Wade to come along with him. Before that point, Peter had never bothered to take a form before. He never thought it was necessary since he could accomplish his tasks without taking some sort of shape, but the third time he visited Wade Wilson, he had taken on a human visage. This visage eventually became his preferred human form, but at the time it was a matter of convenience. Peter had chosen the face of one of the first souls he ever helped ferry across to their resting place. Well, not one of the first; the first soul. He's heard the first one always sticks in one's memories. The face he chose was a young soldier who was unfortunately killed on the front lines, early in the war. The name came from a chart he saw in passing, but it stood out to him. Peter can remember the names of the souls he’s ferried except for the first one, which he has heard is also common for a reaper; but Peter, for himself, sounded just right.

Peter had decided to approach the room as a human would, one foot in front of the other, testing out the shape of his new form. Lanky legs, arms that hung there, hair that sometimes flopped into his eyes. But he made sounds as he walked across the polished hospital floors and gave a little knock on the frame of the open door once he reached the room. It was a human gesture he'd seen a million times before, but it also felt achingly familiar. "Hello, Wade," Peter said, trying out a smile for the first time.

Wade looked up at the knock and had a guarded look on his face as he took in Peter's form. "I told you I wasn't going with ya." Of course he recognized him; while Peter's face might be different, he had the same presence.

"I can't leave you here," Peter argued gently. He couldn't force Wade to leave, but Peter would always come back. "It's your time. I'm sorry."

Blue eyes filled with tears and little Wade looked at the body on the bed. It was connected to all kinds of machines that beeped around it steadily, pale and skinny, sickly under the harsh hospital lighting. "Why me?" he asked, wiping at his face and glaring at his body. "Why can't you kill my dad instead? I'm not the bad one."

"I don't kill, Wade," Peter said calmly. He crossed the room to stand at the boy's side, looking down at the body as well. He could feel Wade's eyes on him. "Fate decides who lives and dies and when. I'm here to collect souls so they can rest." He ruffled the hair on Wade's head, the hair soft and the bandage rough against Peter's fingers. Wade tensed under his touch and Peter was weighed down by the anguish in this little soul. "Don't you want to rest?" The human soul is paradoxically more resilient than anything Peter knows and more fragile than spun glass. The amount of torment a human soul can resist is astonishing, but he’s seen them fracture in an instant. 

Wade's soul was not fragile, despite the torment that Peter could feel.

"No," Wade sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. It was an unnecessary gesture, but human souls  _ will  _ continue to act like they are more than ether.

Peter couldn’t–cannot–force a soul to leave. Doing so would leave a soul in anguish for eternity: Peter did not want to hurt Wade more. "Okay," he said easily, taking a step back.

Wade gave him a wide-eyed look. "Really?"

Peter nodded, ruffling Wade's hair again, wishing he could siphon off some of the pain he was feeling, but it was not his place. He smiled again, this time the gesture feeling more natural. "I can't make you go before you're ready. I don't think me visiting is helping, so I will tell you my name, and when you're ready, call for me."

Wade looked skeptical, but nodded. "Okay."

"Peter," Peter said, then left.

Days passed and Wade never called on him. Peter wasn't too concerned, knowing that Wade would eventually come around. Time means something different to Peter after all. Then, a week after Peter's last visit, Wade's soul disappeared from the plane Peter worked on. At first, Peter worried that another reaper took Wade before he was ready. Reapers generally don't, but Wade's soul had been lingering for so long that it would make some forces antsy.

So Peter rushed to the hospital and was surprised to see Wade's body awake, his soul safely anchored inside. The boy was groggy, blinking slowly, and moving his mouth, like he was trying to speak. Doctors were swarmed around him, making a lot of noise. A uniformed officer entered the room.

Peter doesn't know the living too well, but he felt like Wade Wilson would survive. He left, questions lingering in his mind. He had to wonder if Wade evading death was the work of Fate, or one human soul changing his destiny through sheer will alone. Whatever it was, Peter's work with Wade was done.

He never expected to see Wade Wilson after that. Well, not more than once.

* * *

The next time Peter met Wade Wilson, Peter was back in a warzone. The weaponry was more advanced, the battlefield filled with sand instead of mud, but the savagery was familiar. Since he was born from war, Peter has always had a sort of nostalgia for it, despite how he hates it.

Peter was wandering through a small Pakistani village, one with more bullet holes than people, when he heard the gunshot. A single one, which wasn't uncommon at the time. The soul that entered his plane felt familiar and Peter started to wander towards it. What was odd was the small American special ops team he passed. Americans were in this place, but their demeanor was wrong for the setting. They were discussing their next mission and making jokes with one another, jostling each other and having a good time, despite the sand and the heat. None of them noticed Peter. Peter had taken on his human form on a more permanent basis by that point and, in war, it wasn't uncommon for a person to notice Peter. They weren't dead yet, but some were close to the veil that they caught glimpses of him.

Peter went in the direction that the men had come from. He wasn’t surprised to find Wade Wilson propped up against an abandoned house, his hand dyed red from the bullet wound in his stomach. His breathing was controlled, sweat pouring down his face, blond hair matted to his forehead. The boy Peter once knew was now a grown man, a soldier dying on the field. It was an uncomfortable familiarity for Peter. One that surprised him with its intensity.

It wasn't odd to find Wade in the state he was in, but it was odd that it took Peter a minute to locate Wade's projected soul. Humans call the phenomenon "out of body experiences" and it's pretty accurate, in Peter's opinion. The soul is separate from the physical body and it can be a troubling sight. It was only when Peter looked closer at Wade's body that he realized that something wasn't right. Wade's soul was superimposed on his body, the edges unaligned sometimes. 

Peter squatted in front of Wade, fascinated by the sight, his hands on his knees. Wade Wilson was an extraordinary human. It looked like his soul was tethered to the physical plane by will alone. Familiar blue eyes squinted open and Wade laughed, or he tried to. "I knew I wasn't crazy," he said, voice strained.

"You're holding on pretty tight," Peter pointed out, eyes following the blurring edges around Wade's physical form.

"You're younger than I remember," Wade remarked, eyes closing again.

"You were a lot younger back then," Peter reasoned, "but I'm sure this form is younger than you are now."

"So you're Death?"

"I am one of Her reapers," he told Wade. "Are you going to rest now, Wade?"

Wade scoffed. "Can't rest. Got things to do."

Peter reached down and gently touched one of Wade's outstretched legs. He could feel Wade's soul through the touch. The anguish from his childhood was still there, but there was the added taste of bitter betrayal. It permeated so wholly that Peter had to pull back. His first thought was of the American troops he passed on the way here. "Those men..." he started to say, but stopped himself from saying anymore. Peter ached for Wade. Wade's soul was in so much pain, but it was still whole. Remarkable. And horrifying.

"Don't look so sad, baby boy," Wade teased, flashing a bright smile. "I'll be up and kicking before you know it."

Peter blinked at him. "I'm much, much older than you are, Wade."

Wade shrugged, breath stuttering. "Tell me without that baby face."

Peter shook his head. "I'm supposed to help you rest. 'Up and kicking' doesn't sound very restful."

"Yeah, well, your way sounds boring," Wade shot back.

Peter smiled and sat cross-legged in front of Wade. "I appreciate your willpower," Peter said with a smile, "but there are no machines to keep you alive out here. Once your body dies, your soul will have to be ferried."

"Then, respectfully, I would like to wait until that moment," Wade gritted out between his teeth. He was in pain. Peter saw no harm in granting Wade his request.

"Alright," Peter agreed, settling in. Wade would succumb to his injuries in a few hours and a few hours was nothing to Peter.

What Peter didn't expect was for a man to come across Wade about an hour after their agreement and immediately call for help. Peter watched with interest as a group of Pakistani men swarmed Wade and whisked him away for medical help, even though Wade was wearing an American service uniform.

Peter had followed, still expecting Wade to succumb, but once his soul was anchored in his body again, Peter left. Wade didn't need him anymore.

* * *

The next time Peter found Wade, it was because Wade's soul was almost piercing the veil–a familiar feeling that Peter had come to associate with the "walking dead." These people were terminally ill and could see Peter without issue. Sometimes when Peter felt a soul just on the other side, he would spend time with them, sit with them before they died. They usually went rather peacefully.

Peter feared what that meant for a person like Wade. Wade was in New York; Peter was in New Zealand, doing his rounds through a hospital, when he felt the change. Wade's soul would have been brushing against the veil for a while, but the second Wade's illness hit the point of no return, Wade had one foot on either side of the veil. Still, Peter forced himself to finish what he had come to do in New Zealand before going back to New York.

He found Wade in an eclectic studio apartment. There were bare and unfinished walls and no door to the bathroom, but there was love in the space. Wade had been happy in this space. The sadness was only recent.

Wade was sitting on the couch, bent forward over his knees with his hands clasped behind his head. He radiated sorrow. Peter gave Wade a moment, choosing to wander around the home and take in everything that made this space personal. Nothing too much stood out from other humans: books with dog-eared pages, half-burnt candles, a plant that could use some water. But Peter did stop when he caught sight of a strip of pictures. They look like they were taken one after the other and the couple pictured in them looked happy. Wade was half of that couple, the other a pretty woman. Peter hadn't found anything to suggest that the woman had lived in the apartment, other than an old perfume that Peter would associate with women, but he couldn't be too sure. 

Then there was a click and Wade's dangerous voice. "I don't know how you got in, but you have three seconds before I paint my walls."

Peter wasn't scared. He looked over his shoulder, a small smile on his face. "Hello, Wade," he greeted with some amusement. Wade had a gun pointed in Peter's face, not that it would work against Peter.

Wade’s eyes went wide and he lowered the gun. "You... fuck. That can't be good."

Peter shook his head sadly. "No, it's not good."

"The doctor said I had a few months."

Peter nodded. "You do, but I think you can guess why you can see me?"

Wade nodded, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah... it's not getting better."

"No, it's not."

"So why are you here?" Wade asked, putting his gun away.

"People... in your situation tend to pull away, isolate. I come and offer company until the end, so you're not alone," Peter explained. He decided not to mention that Wade had already withdrawn if the woman in the pictures is anything to go by. "You can always choose to send me away, but I don't mind staying."

Wade laughed weakly. "Yeah, company would be nice." He nodded to the pictures. "I just broke things off with her. I just... I didn't want to die next to her. When the doctor told me there was nothing else.. I couldn't keep her around... I don't want her to remember me sick."

"I think she would've liked to stay," Peter said carefully, turning his attention back to the picture. At least Wade brought it up. "When you humans love, you tend to love until you can't anymore." Peter smiled. "You tend to love to your own destruction as well. I understand you, Wade." He looked back at Wade. "Will you come with me when it's time?"

Wade laughed. "I don't know, three months is a long time."

And it was.

Time, for Peter, happens all at once, but, with Wade, time moved at a much more human pace. Because of Wade’s condition, he moved into a home that was more affordable than his apartment and partially covered by the government. It was small and filled with the sick and dying, but Wade never seemed to mind.

“Peter, baby boy, you  _ have  _ to stop staring at me. You’re giving me the creeps.”

“Sorry, Wade, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well, you’re not going to stand there for three months and watch me die, so get over here. I’m going to teach you how to play poker.”

That was the first game of many Wade taught Peter to pass the time. He even taught him how to play games by himself for when Wade was too tired to give Peter attention. When Peter didn’t want to play alone, he would wander to another person’s room and play with them.

Peter, while sad, always enjoyed spending time with the terminal. He always learned the most about humanity in those times. The way that humans loved, and lost, and experienced regret. How they laughed, how they cried, how they tried their hardest to hide their emotions when faced with a smiling face. 

”Where’d you go, baby boy?”

“I went to visit Mr. Lemos while you had your nap.”

“You visit him a lot, should I be jealous?”

“No, he never gets a visitor that just wants to spend time with him. Every time his kids visit, they argue about inheritance and it’s gotten to the point where they don’t bring his grandchildren around anymore.” 

“...maybe I’ll make some time for him, too.” 

“I think he’ll like that.” 

He watched those without illness interact with the dying, saw the cruel and the kind. Peter loved every second of it, but it also wore on his heart.

Each soul, at their time, was lovingly ferried, taken to rest, but it wasn't their lives that stuck out to Peter the most. What lingered with Peter was the relief at the end: all the pain had disappeared and they went to rest feeling an ease that had become unfamiliar to them.

“How was the funeral, Wade?”

“Sparsely attended.”

“His kids couldn’t even show up?”

“You didn’t show up either.” 

“Wade, I was with Mr. Lemos. I ferried him to his resting place.” 

“Oh… right… how was he?”

“Without pain and ready to relax.” 

Peter had hoped that death would be the same for Wade, but the more Peter learned from Wade, the more he realized that Wade wasn't giving up without a fight, even when the fight was already lost.

“Wade, you can’t ignore this. You’re  _ dying  _ and you can’t stop it. It’s why I’m here and people are always at peace--”

“And who do you think you are to be talking to me like that? You don’t  _ know _ me!”

“Don’t be an ass--”

“Really, now? It’s like you don’t know me at all!”

“You’re impossible!”

That was one of many fights he had with Wade about mortality. Peter always learned so much in offering company to the sick, and that was the same with Wade. He learned to laugh more, how to smile more freely, how to appreciate the minutiae of life, but he also learned how to fight and how to worry.

“Where were you, Wade? You’re in no condition to be wandering around the city on your own. What if you collapse?”

“You seem to know everything, so how about you tell me where I went.”

Peter had come to learn that Wade had no intention of coming with him. He had no intention of dying. Peter wasn't offended. All humans went through stages of denial when it comes to their own mortality. But then Wade started participating in risky experiments.

“Wade, please, you’re in so much pain. Please stop doing these crazy experiments! I can’t bear to watch you suffer!”

“I’m not forcing you to stay! You can leave!”

“Please, Wade! They’re only hurting you! Please don’t do this!” 

“I can’t give up without a fight, Peter!” 

By the time Wade was attending human trials for cancer treatments that would never pass an ethics board, the only part of Wade that wasn't afflicted was his skin. Peter was certain this ailment was the work of Fate, intending for Wade to finally follow his path. Technically, he should've died at seven.

Peter accompanied Wade to the facility and he was certain Wade would die there. The "facility" was in the basement of an old mental hospital. It felt too much like a prison for Peter, but he didn't intervene. He could not–cannot–defy Fate. Still, Peter was worried the entire time Wade was there.

It doesn't help that Wade wasn't the only person there. While Wade received "treatments", Peter would ferry souls that died in the facility. The relief from the pain they suffered for their treatments was barely better than the despair their souls felt for being scammed. These people didn't have a chance of surviving and they spent their last days or even weeks being tortured to death instead of with their loved ones.

The morality of this facility upset Peter. So much so that he had started questioning Fate's design. People have always been cruel to one another, but this project violated natural laws in a way that Peter almost felt compelled to intervene.

After two weeks of constant testing and experimentation, something finally happened.

Peter had taken to indulging his more human mannerisms the longer he stayed at Wade's side. Wade and his soul were resting, the ether still stubbornly tethered to flesh. Peter had stolen a chair and was curled up in a ball, eyes closed and listening to the beep of Wade's heart monitor. It was steady.

_ Beep. _

_ Beep. _

Peter was missing talking to Wade. He had been so exhausted that he could barely stay awake long enough to eat something.

_ Beep _ .

_ Beep. _

The doctors and nurses didn't appear to be fazed by an empty chair next to Wade's bed. Or if they had noticed, they didn't say anything. The chair definitely wasn't there when they put Wade in the bed.

_ Beep. _

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

The change in pace was slow at first, but then Wade's heart monitor was beeping rapidly. Peter opened his eyes in alarm at the change of pace.

Wade was writhing on the cheap gurney, brow furrowed, sweat forming on his brow. Then he  _ screamed _ .

Peter shot to his feet, knocking over the chair he was sitting in. Wade tensed and thrashed once more, then his soul rolled off the bed, his body left convulsing behind him.

Peter rushed to the soul's side, doctors and nurses coming into the room to tend to the body. "Wade!" Peter called, carefully reaching for Wade's shoulders. The touch  _ burned _ Peter. He recoiled in shock.

Wade continued to scream and writhe under him. Peter couldn't stand it. "Wade, please! Please, let me take you!" he begged, tears in his eyes. Peter didn’t think he’d cried before that night, but seeing Wade's suffering shattered something inside him.

Wade's screams died down, but he was still convulsing, eyes open but rolling back. Peter had never seen a soul suffer so much before. "It's okay," Wade gasped, twitching violently. "It'll be over soon."

"Wade, please," Peter repeated, touching Wade despite the burn. It traveled up his arms. "I don't want to see you in pain."

Wade reached up and touched the back of Peter's hand gently. "It's going to be okay," he repeated, his soul going limp, like he passed out.

Then Peter heard a retching sound and turned around. Wade's body rolled onto its side and vomited all over the floor. Peter dodged it, unsure why he did. Physical stuff doesn't affect Peter unless he wants it to. Although, with what came up, Peter was glad he dodged it. The vomit was pitch black, like tar, and covered in a foamy, clear oil substance. Peter's stomach roiled. No way was that natural.

The doctors excitedly collected everything Wade's body threw up, pink in their cheeks and lights in their eyes. Then Peter got a closer look at Wade's body. For the first time, Wade's soul didn't match his body. They had the same shape, the same weight loss from being sick, and they were the same height, but Wade’s hair was gone and he was covered in scars. 

"He's stable," one nurse said with excitement.

"Jesus Christ," a doctor said, looking ecstatic.

"What about his skin?" a different nurse asked.

The doctor waved her off. "That's secondary for now. Fluids then tests for now. This could be our breakthrough."

Wade groaned from the floor and Peter had a visceral moment where he couldn't recognize Wade easily without the scars. Wade's soul got to his feet and looked down at his body. "Ah, man," he whined, "that's just being mean." Then Peter watched Wade's soul's skin mottle until it matched the body on the bed.

"Wade?" Peter was unsure of what else he could say. What he saw… he couldn’t explain it.

Wade looked up and rubbed the back of his neck. Was his soul sweating? "Sorry you had to see that."

"What happened?" Peter asked.

"Cancer's gone," Wade shrugged.

"What?"

Wade sighed and stretched. "This is going to suck." He smiled at Peter. "See ya next time."

"Wait!" But it was too late. Wade jumped onto his body and his soul was anchored again, firmly back in the land of the living. Peter had so many questions, but none would be answered until he could talk to Wade again.

Then there was a scream and Peter had to leave Wade's side. He had a job to do.

* * *

The last time Peter met Wade Wilson, the man had lived for thirty-three years. By now, Peter's senses were fine-tuned for Wade's soul. There had been some close calls, and Peter had ignored a few near-death experiences, the memories of Wade suffering keeping Peter from seeking him out.

The last time he sought out Wade's soul, it was when Wade was firmly on the other side.

Even though Peter knew what he should expect, he was still in the habit of finding Wade half-dead, so he was shocked when he came to find Wade's soul standing over a very dead body. No life support, no weakly beating heart, just a body with extra holes and unseeing eyes.

Wade was standing over it, looking angry, but looked the same as the last time Peter saw him. No bullet holes in his soul. "Shit," Wade cursed, pacing around the body. "That's not good."

"Are you ready to rest?" Peter asked, unsure how he felt about seeing Wade this time. In theory, he should find peace, but that should've happened a lot before. Would Wade resist now as well?

Wade jumped. "Oh! Baby boy!" He smiled broadly, like he hadn’t just gone through being killed. "You're a sight for sore eyes. Still beautiful though." He winked.

Peter wanted to laugh. Wade was absurd. "I'm glad you find my form appealing," he said, smiling. Those terrible memories of Wade suffering were quickly replaced by that smiling face. "Are you ready to go?"

"I can't go," Wade declared, shaking his head. "I still got things to do, people to see."

"Wade," Peter said gently. "Look at your body," he gestured to it, "there's no going back. Not even the best medicine could bring you back."

"Yeah," Wade sighed. "I got more holes than Swiss cheese." Peter smiled. Really, he shouldn't have, but it was hard not to smile around Wade. "But I can't go with you."

Peter frowned. "Wade, you can  _ rest _ . Your life has been hard and you deserve peace."

Wade laughed bitterly. "Don't I know it, but there's no place for me to go."

Peter was confused. "Every soul has a place. It's my job to guide you. Let me help you rest." Peter felt uncomfortable with the realization that Wade would go away forever. Despite everything, Peter had grown fond of the tenacious human. Those weeks spent with Wade when he was terminal ran through his mind, reminding him harshly about what Peter would never get again. Wade's spirit, even through suffering, was never broken and now he deserved rest.

Wade shook his head. "Here," he held out his hand, "try me."

Peter wasn't sure how Wade knew how his job worked, even if it was pretty simple. Peter doesn't know a soul's destination until he touches them, then Peter knows the way. It's a simple trick really, to keep the questions shorter.

But when Peter thought about how it was done, he paused. He'd touched Wade's soul plenty of times, but he had never felt that pull of where Wade was supposed to go. 

Wade noticed Peter's hesitation and smiled sadly. "Yeah," he said. "Death doesn't want me. I fucked up by getting myself killed."

"I don't... every soul has a place," Peter insisted, heart constricted.

Wade shook his head. "Mine is here," he looked down at the body, "where I lie because I've refused to leave my body too many times."

"That's cruel," Peter argued. "Everyone deserves rest, everyone deserves  _ peace _ ."

Wade shrugged. "Fate tore me a new asshole for my last stunt. You know how she can be if you usurp her."

"Fate is cruel, but Death is not," Peter said hotly. "Not to the dead. Fate cannot punish you in death. It is not her domain." He did not think about how Wade had apparently talked with Fate in that moment.

"Death can't see me anymore. Dodged her too many times," Wade joked weakly.

"I can see you," Peter argued.

"You’re not Death," Wade said evenly, but not cruelly.

Peter was overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all. He looked around the room. Wade died in a nondescript abandoned warehouse, left behind to rot. Peter doubted his body would be found before it bloated and became home to insects and scavenging animals, maybe not before all that was left of Wade's body was bones. Peter pictured Wade's soul, still so bright and  _ whole _ , witnessing its vessel fade to dust, and was hit with a wave of rebellion. He'd never questioned Fate before, but—

"I can hear your intentions, Reaper," Fate's voice interjected. They call Fate "she", but her form is genderless. Her voice is the same: loud and silent, sweet and raspy, cruel and kind, thunderous and quiet. Her tone resonated within Peter. "Do not overstep your role."

" _ You're _ the one who has overstepped," Peter responded vehemently. Wade's eyes went wide. "Wade is  _ dead _ . He is not your concern anymore."

"Yet Death is not here," Fate responded neutrally.

"I am here, and I am Her messenger."

"You are young and volatile and have mistakenly bonded with a soul. Without the bond, you would be as blind as Death," Fate hissed at him. Peter felt like she was right next to his ear, goosebumps rising over his body. "If he doesn't belong to Death, he belongs to Fate."

"He is dead," Peter argued. "He belongs to Death."

"You have a job to do. Fighting for the fate of one soul is useless," Fate sniped.

"Now, now," another voice chimed in. Peter recognized it and relaxed immediately. Death's voice was soft and rang like bells, tranquil and serene. "If one soul didn't matter, you would not be so upset."

"Death, there is nothing for you here," Fate snapped.

Death took Her most familiar form: a skeleton in dark robes. Wade froze at the sight, but Peter was filled with peace. "I would say you are mistaken, Fate. My reaper is here and there is a soul to be ferried, but I cannot sense him."

"Please," Peter interrupted. Death looked at him. "Please help Wade find peace. He deserves it."

"His tether to his afterlife has been lost," Death said apologetically, "long before we could intervene. Yet you still bonded to him. Fate, what is your plan?" She looked Wade up and down. "Is this how you create your Hands?"

Peter's breath hitched. He'd heard of Fate's Hands, before, but he had never met one. He looked at Wade with new eyes. No human soul should have been able to resist the torture Wade had suffered. Wade tensed, avoiding eye contact. "He evaded my will years ago. He is a reject," Fate growled.

"I  _ told _ you I had work to do," Wade cut in, like he had said that a million times before. "Those people needed to be dealt with and you weren't doing anything."

"That is not your job to decide–"

"It was a job you gave me," Wade cut her off, annoyance on his face. "Measuring guilt and executing your will, that is what I was meant to do."

"Against targets  _ I _ tell you," Fate yelled. "You jumped targets!"

"You saw the suffering," Wade argued. "I couldn't sit back and do nothing. That goes against anything I am. That's  _ their _ job–" he gestured to Peter and Death– "to wait."

"You've altered the Plan."

"Wade, you can't mess with the Plan," Peter said quickly, too shocked and numb to offer much else.

Wade rolled his eyes. "Not now. As a human, though? Yeah, they do that all the time. You saw those doctors."

"I like him," Death said.

"Don't encourage him," Fate snapped.

"We both know the Plan is malleable," Death said calmly. "And if you hated him so much, why keep his soul intact? I doubt you'll be able to intimidate this one."

Fate sighed loudly. "He is too volatile. That last stunt was... will you ever listen to me?"

Wade grimaced and shrugged. "Maybe."

"Tether him to Peter," Death suggested.

"What?" Peter and Fate asked in unison.

"Peter has bonded with Wade and he's good at his job," Death explained. "I think he'll be a good influence on Wade."

"You'd give up a reaper so easily?" Fate asked.

Peter's heart dropped at the implication. Death shook her head before Peter could worry too much. "We'll have to collaborate, but they'll be fine." 

Peter wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he knew he was relieved that this meant that Wade wouldn't live, that Peter wouldn't have to experience an existence without Wade. “I agree,” he said quickly, afraid they might change their minds, even though his opinion was never asked.

"Fine," Fate sighed in annoyance. Then Peter felt something happen to him, like a rope around his heart connecting him to Wade. It wasn't too tight or too loose; it felt... comfortable. It felt right. "Good luck," Fate wished them, then vanished.

Death approached Peter and gently held his face with bony hands. He closed his eyes and She kissed his forehead. "You're doing excellent, Peter. I know you'll continue to be excellent." Peter nodded, grateful for her words. Then Death, too, left.

Then all that was left was Peter, Wade, and Wade's decomposing body. Peter let out a breath. He'd met Death and Fate before, but never at the same time. He felt a little awed and needed a moment to collect himself. "I guess you're a big deal?" Peter asked Wade, trying to make it sound like a joke.

Wade laughed. "More like a big troublemaker."

"When did you know?"

"When I got sick," Wade shrugged. "Fate explained my role and... well..."

"You defied Fate?" Peter finished, voice high in disbelief.

Wade laughed again. "Yeah, I'm not saying all my ideas were good..." Peter shook his head fondly, laughing. "But hey! I'm here now!"

Peter nodded. "Yes, and let's get to work."

Wade groaned loudly, but followed Peter out of the warehouse. Peter had to ignore Wade's offers of doing something else. They had a job to do, so they're going to do it.

Thirty-three was the last time Peter looked for Wade. Now he gets to spend eternity with Wade at his side and he's always wondered if Fate can affect Death. Peter knows it must have been one of her Hands that had a role in keeping Wade at his side. Or maybe Death can affect Fate.

If it's all part of the Plan, Peter will never know, but Peter finds that it doesn't matter. Wade is here and whole beside him, scarred, loud, and brash, but whole and bright and  _ here _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
